


we are children of dust and ashes

by flightofwonder



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Branding, Child Death (Implied), Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Slavery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, joe deserves to be treated gently too dammit, joe-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofwonder/pseuds/flightofwonder
Summary: He distantly remembered the smell of burning, but that was growing familiar enough, in this life he now led.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 253
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	we are children of dust and ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, apparently I had some feelings about being a creator I had to get out via Joe whump. Enjoy?
> 
> In all honestly, I love how assured and comfortable with himself and his role in the old guard Joe is in the movie's timeline, but I wanted to explore a time when he might not have been. Also, Joe is the expert on treating others with gentleness, but he deserves to be treated gently, too.
> 
> Whumptober Prompts: Branding, Magical Healing. As for all of whumptober, please mind the tags.

Yusuf abandoned his parchment a few miles out from where they buried the bodies of the unknown children.

He didn’t remember when, exactly. Time was still soft around the edges, then. But he remembered making a choice. Enough of himself remained to make sure to rid himself of the tools of his old trade where Nicolò would not see, but he didn’t have it in him to worry beyond that. He distantly remembered the smell of burning, but that was growing familiar enough, in this life he now led. 

He drifted in that foggy haze as their group marched forward through the wilderness, and though Nicolò watched him carefully as the weeks passed, he followed Andromache without complaint or expectation. They fought no new battles, and Yusuf was glad of it. He obviously had much to learn.

Andromache was a relentless trainer, and Yusuf told himself that he liked it that way. The two of them would already be in a bout for hours before Andromache cut into his side for the umpteenth time that day. His reserves were empty, and Andromache’s were clearly not, but he stood back up anyway, sweating and bleeding from several orifices, pushing himself again and again. Nicolò or Quỳnh intervening continued to be the only reason they didn’t train well into the night.

One day, the other two went to town as he and Andromache trained. When they returned at nightfall, Nicolò presented Yusuf with new parchment and charcoal. Something stiff caught in his throat at the sight, but he swallowed it and smiled. A flickering of warmth cracked in his chest when he kissed Nicolò’s lips, a shadow of the fire that used to blaze in him, but it was more than what lived in him since -

Yusuf thanked him as he drew him into an embrace, because Nicolò was thoughtful and kind and wonderful, and he deserved what little heart Yusuf had to give in return. He tried to be discrete as he put the materials into his pack, before he reached again for his saif and made his way back towards Andromache, who was already in a fighting stance.

* * *

Time passed, and they took on another job. Nicolò spoke softly when he asked Yusuf if he was ready. Yusuf said yes, but privately, he still wondered at the gaps in his knowledge and how many others would die because of it.

Nicolò spoke much less softly when Andromache pitched her plan. It might have been the first time he’d ever raised his voice against their leader, but he made his displeasure of her idea plenty known. He was in the middle of another tirade on how Yusuf shouldn’t have to do this, _wouldn’t_ do this, when Yusuf’s stern voice cut through the cacophony:

“You don’t speak for me, Nicolò.”

And that was enough to quiet him. Old guilt warred with the fury and fear on his face, and even though he knew he was right in his words, a part of Yusuf still yearned to soothe those tumulous emotions away. Yusuf would have acted similarly if Andromache had asked this of Nicolò instead of Yusuf. Instead of platitudes, he handed Nicolò his saif and readied himself for his journey. 

“Come back to me,” whispered Nicolò in Yusuf’s mother tongue, and a dormant part of him knew that he was speaking of more than just this job. But Yusuf said nothing, just kissed his forehead, and turned towards the road, walking with the confidence that Nicolò’s eyes would be at his back for the next few days.

Getting caught was easy. He made himself disheveled enough to appear to have no family or connections, but no scraps of cloth could hide his well-built features. He put up a facade of a fight as they chained him and put him in the wagon, but once he was in, he serenely thumbed the hilt of his dagger in his boot.

Yusuf watched himself get carted away with strangers as if he were outside his own body, and similarly, he felt a cool detachment as the day moved towards night. He felt no anticipation nor eagerness to get along with the job, just the truth that he would see it through.

Still, his eyes darted away as soon as they contacted any of the prisoners he was chained with. He stifled the urge to console or reassure, reminded himself it would do no good.

He had offered those girls comfort, and now they were six feet underground.

So, Yusuf stilled the spasm in his chest every time a guard handled someone roughly or spat in their face. He wasn’t a ready-made warrior the way the others were – his palms were calloused from pen and graphite instead of a hilt of a weapon – but if he remained calm until they reached the rendezvous, he could still help save these people. 

It was easy enough at first; it had been weeks since he last felt as if he inhabited his own skin, since he felt something other than the adrenaline and exhaustion that came from teaching his hands how to serve a higher purpose.

(The Yusuf of his youth would laugh at him, would call him a cynical old man. But that man had neither immortality nor the responsibility that came with it. That Yusuf hadn’t yet even buried a member of his family.)

The sun began its retreat some time ago, and Yusuf ate the scraps that they were fed without complaint, not looking behind him to wonder where the family was watching him from and how far off they would be. They still had a few days until these men reached their destination, and Yusuf expected the usual affair of threats being thrown into their carts before the guards fucked off for the night.

But Yusuf was jolted from his apathy when he saw what they had been rounded up for that evening.

The campfire was hardly remarkable, but the length of iron one of the guards held to it was. And Yusuf, who had practiced so long at being nothing, feeling nothing, felt a drum of fury, and before he thought better of it, he called out.

He was hauled up to the front of the prisoners, and as the fire painted the cool iron the reds and yellows of its flames, he realized that he had ruined their plan. But the ferocity and desperation that thrummed through his veins at the sight of the brand didn’t much care. He had tried to remain detached from his fellow prisoners all day, but even in this simple task, he failed. He couldn't see any of these innocents come to this sort of harm. 

If any of these people got branded, they would wear the mark of oppression for the rest of their lives. Yusuf wouldn’t.

He shouted as the scorching iron pressed into his inner forearm, burning and dissolving skin in its wake, and Yusuf felt nauseous from the pain and the realization that he could _smell_ his flesh burning. The sigil dug into his skin like a worm dug underground, but no sooner had it entered then his skin started to reform and push the branding iron _out_.

The guard looked properly befuddled, but Yusuf didn’t have time to think before he was being seized and pushed to his knees. This time, the guard pushed into his skin with wicked intensity, and when the iron burned through enough skin to touch bone, Yusuf gave in to his urge to scream.

An arrow went straight through the guard’s left eye and out the back of his head, and his limp hand dropped the iron where he fell.

* * *

The camp was suspiciously quiet. He had expected the yelling match between Andromache and Nicolò to resume at full capacity. More accurately, he expected to be thoroughly reamed out by Andromache, but when he walked past camp and into the night, Andromache made no move to stop him.

None of the prisoners had been killed in the chaos, thank God, and they had made off with the very dead men’s horses and headed for the nearest port, as Andromache and her group stole the needed supplies from before disappearing into the wilderness again. Perhaps Andromache was mollified by the lack of innocent casualties, but still, Yusuf knew that he had put them all at risk with his maneuver.

Perhaps even Nicolò wasn’t inclined to defend him, not after he had clearly made their secret known. That they were dead now didn’t matter. Keeping their condition a secret came above all other priorities, Andromache had made that clear.

Yusuf tried to school his self-pity when he saw Nicolò make his way to where he was situated at the cliffside, their campfire illuminating his approaching silhouette. Yusuf hadn’t felt dread like this at Nicolò's approach for many years now, but this time, he left his saif limp and useless at his feet. If Nicolò felt the need to kill him as retribution, he would not fight it.

But instead of words of condemnation or a longsword to the gut, arms wrapped around his waist and tugged him to the other man’s chest. Yusuf collapsed against the secure hold, instinctively trusting Nicolò to catch his fall, no matter that a part of him expected an attack. All at once, he felt exhaustion he hadn’t felt in years, and his eyes began to well for the first time since he could remember. He never used to be ashamed to cry, but he had no use for tears, not since –

“This has been coming since Luoyang,” said Nicolò, stroking Yusuf’s curls from the top of his head down to his neck. The sensation was so grounding, yet his tears just grew stronger. “I should have said something.”

“I would not have heard you,” Yusuf admitted, the two of them tangled on the hard ground and his face buried somewhere in Nicolò’s chest.

Nicolò made a quiet sound, neither acquiescing nor protesting, and as his long fingers continued their trek from the top of his head to the base of his neck, Yusuf let his tears silently fall. Nicolò kissed the wetness at his crow’s feet, soft and tender, and Yusuf watched their team's fireplace shape and distort from this distance. His fear seemed absurd now, that Nicolò would ever turn against him, and his misery only grew. Had he lost himself so much?

“I spoke with Andromache and Quỳnh,” said Nicolò, voice easy and non-judgmental. “We think – I think – we should take some time to rest.”

Yusuf jerked his head back and forth in an approximation of a shake, pulling away slightly from the other’s embrace.

“No, no, I can – give me a chance, Nicolò, please, I’ll – I’ll be stronger next time. I’ll be better.”

“Oh, Yusuf,” said Nicolò, sounding heartbroken, and Yusuf began to retreat. But Nicolò gently led his pliant form back to him, back home, and their eyes met like old friends before their foreheads pressed together, softly.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Yusuf shook his head again, but Nicolò stilled it with a gentle cup to the back of his neck. “It was a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault. Do you put the blame on Quỳnh, or Andromache, or me?”

“You three are warriors,” Yusuf insisted.

“And you are not?” said Nicolò, a disbelieving amusement briefly painting his somber tone.

“I am now, but I wasn’t born to be, Nicolò. I was a merchant. I was an artist. But for some reason, God thought it right to give me this gift. But I’m not… _enough_.”

Yusuf whispered as he spoke, eyes drifting to the ground. Moments passed in silence, and after a time, Nicolò gently urged Yusuf to look back at him, using his other hand to cup his cheek, holding Yusuf’s head between his hands like it was some treasured thing.

“This is why you haven’t picked up a pen or a piece of charcoal since?” Nicolò guessed quietly, using a thumb to wipe away the tears that still ran down Yusuf’s cheeks.

“What use are they?” said Yusuf bitterly.

“Their use is that _you use them_ , Yusuf.” Nicolò sounded somewhat bewildered, but no less soothing. “I know you don’t believe that this world has no use for beauty.”

“No,” Yusuf admitted, staring off into the darkness over Nicolò’s shoulder, “But I do not think God chose me to be an eternal artist. I died with a saif in my hand for a reason.”

Once again, Nicolò had to guide Yusuf back to his line of vision, and instead of the gaping abyss of the night, he saw the morning sky in Nicolò’s eyes. They had always been a beacon leading him home.

“You say you’re not like us,” started Nicolò, his hand moving from the back of Yusuf’s neck to trail over his shoulder and down the front of his chest, resting lightly against his heart. “You’re right. We could never hope to match what you can do, Yusuf. Amid such despair, you paint the world so beautifully for all of us, and that’s a gift we will never be able to repay.” 

Nicolò’s sounded so earnest, so sincere, and Yusuf wanted to believe him. He wanted to be worthy of that faith. Instead, he shook his head again.

“And when I can’t make it beautiful?” he asked, his voice wrecked.

“Then don’t,” whispered Nicolò, rubbing comforting circles into the side of Yusuf’s scalp. “But please Yusuf. Don’t punish yourself. You’re trying to suffocate this part of you, a part that makes you _you_ , and you are suffering for it. Please, my love,” and his voice finally cracked, “Come back to me.”

And something unlocked in his chest, something huge and sorrowful and screaming, something he’d been fighting to keep trapped for so long. But Nicolò drew it out, and Nicolò was who he clung to as an anguish he had feared would drown him for weeks finally overtook him. 

But instead of sinking beneath the waves, after a time, the tide subsided once again, and Yusuf was left panting in the shadow of his despair in Nicolò’s steady arms. And Nicolò - Nicolò just held him tight, kissing his head intermittently until Yusuf slid back into his skin. Part of him mourned this, wanted to remain detached as he was before. He was disappointed to find that the melancholy remained, but surprised to learn that didn’t have claws; it lingered like a breeze on the wind instead.

After there were no tears left in him, they finally pulled apart, but their hands still intertwined.

“I owe them an apology,” Yusuf's voice cracked as he sat up straighter.

“I think it’s more likely that you’ll receive one,” Nicolò said knowingly, and Yusuf would be more curious if he wasn’t so tired. He couldn’t quite bring himself to face them yet, so he sat with his Nicolò, resting his head on his shoulder, and Nicolò ran his thumb over Yusuf’s knuckles as they sat in silence.

“You remember when I lost my arm?” Nicolò asked out of the blue, Yusuf was so startled that he laughed; as if he’d ever forget. They’d both been miserable for the several hours it took for it to grow back, hidden in an abandoned part of town as the battle moved on without them.

Nicolò kissed his cheek, his relief at Yusuf's laughter obvious; it had been a long time since he’d laughed or cried before this night. “I wanted to keep fighting as it was still growing. You told me I can do a lot more good with two hands than with one. That I had to be patient and let myself heal.”

“That’s different,” Yusuf argued weakly, “I have no physical pains.”

“Then why do you rub your arm so?” asked Nicolò gently, and Yusuf looked down to see he’d been doing just that. He let go, somewhat ashamed, but Nicolò lifted his wrist and kissed down his arm, covering all the places the brand had touched his skin. He felt a smile threaten to tug his lips, the overwhelming affection and devotion of the gesture washing over him like a cool, refreshing wave. 

“Where will we go?” was all Yusuf had left to ask. 

Nicolò tugged on Yusuf’s bicep in an obvious ploy to be wrapped in Yusuf’s arms, and Yusuf gave in easily. “I don’t know,” Nicolò said, staring up into the night sky.

“We can’t be separated for too long,” Yusuf insisted. “Battles or no, they’re our family.”

“I know,” Nicolò agreed with a small smile. “We won’t be. They’re too much a part of us now to be long gone. Just… some time to breathe. That is all.”

Yusuf followed Nicolò’s gaze out to the stars and said, “ _Surrat al-Faras_ will help lead us all back to each other, in time. She is always where we need her to be.” He referred to the brightest star in the sky, and Nicolò chuckled, wet and low and beautiful.

“There’s my poet. Please don’t take him from this world. Please, don’t take him from me.”

Yusuf kissed his lips and let himself feel it all; every scratch of his beard against his cheek, every breath interchanged between their lips, every deep and wide emotion he tried his best to bury. He felt it all - and it hurt. But with Nicolò, he thought, maybe he could learn to stand it. 

“I won’t,” Yusuf promised.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [flightsofwonder](https://flightsofwonder.tumblr.com/). If you enjoyed this fic and have a tumblr/would like to share it, you can find a link [here](https://flightsofwonder.tumblr.com/post/632089114456506368/we-are-children-of-dust-and-ashes-the-old-guard).


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